Every few minutes she walked stiff-backed into the dining room, skirts brushing the floor, and stared at the tables as if daring any of the customers to complain.
There were some half dozen others apart from Hart. A couple of ranch hands, a drummer in a pin-stripe suit, what looked to be a pair of newly-weds from the way they kept staring into one another’s eyes and holding hands between bites, and a mulatto with a cast in his left eye and a way of sidling glances at everyone else that was close to unsettling.
Once Hart caught his expression and held it for a few seconds before the man looked away.
Hart finished his meal and ordered coffee. It was as well Mrs. McMurty didn’t say anything about her coffee outside; Hart might have tasted weaker, meaner coffee somewhere but he couldn’t recall where. After a couple of mouthfuls, he pushed the cup away and left.
The first saloon he came to was the Deuce of Clubs and it stank like the leavings of a rabid goat – and that was in the daytime.
The Guthrie Star was smaller but cleaner and the sawdust strewn over the floor looked fresh enough to have been put there that morning. Hart ordered a couple of beers and drank one off straight, taking the second to a table and sitting with it for a while.
In mid-swallow he realized that someone was looking at him and spotted the mulatto peering over the top of the bat-wing doors. Hart set his glass down slowly and by the time it had touched the table the man had gone.
Behind him three men argued about the merits of a particular brand of seed and a fourth man, by himself close to the window, snored with the ragged rise and fall of his breath.
The bartender polished glasses with the bottom of his striped apron, whistling a tune that Hart recognized but couldn’t put a name to.
Soon Hart was ready to go and the second glass of beer drained. He was midway out of his chair when the doors swung back and a group of five men walked through, not too fast but with a sense of purpose.
‘Mayor! You want the usual?’
The leader of the group glanced over towards the bar, shaking his head in a manner that suggested he was affronted. The bartender shrugged and let it go.
The mayor of Guthrie was portly and walked with a left leg that seemed to be stiff from the thigh down. He had a silver watch chain strung across his dark blue vest like it was a symbol of office. The couple on his right were also wearing suits fresh from the latest shipment into the local store; one had a neatly clipped moustache which seemed out of place on his florid face, the second kept twitching his head slightly and looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but where he was.
The other two were different. The tall man wearing the striped apron was the town butcher. His hands looked strong enough to tear a steer apart by themselves and his forearms were spotted with dark specks that could have been blood. Alongside him was a shortish man with thinning hair and the black linen suit of a preacher.
Hart wondered if he was the one who’d cut out the tongue of the youngster working the ferry.
‘I’m Hansley. Mayor of Guthrie.’
He used his voice like he was talking to a meeting.
Hart leaned back in his chair and nodded, glancing from one face to another and showing that he didn’t give a damn for any of them.
‘We represent the citizens of this town and we have regard to the, em, safety of its citizens. As such...’
Hart spread both hands out in front of him, cutting the man short. ‘You got anythin’ to say or you just practisin’ for election time?’
The butcher tried and failed to suppress a laugh; the preacher looked angry; the pair in suits didn’t seem to believe what they’d heard. Hansley reddened and took a half pace backwards, pushing the fingers of his left hand between the buttons of his vest.
‘Sir, I...’
‘You’re either goin’ to offer me the job of sheriff or advise me to move on through town come morning.’
‘I...’
‘We ain’t got no call for a sheriff.’ The butcher looked sideways at Hart, pulling at a piece of animal fat that had got stuck to the hairs of his arm.
Hart nodded. ‘You provide the meat for the McMurty place?’
The butcher flicked the piece of fat down on to the sawdust. ‘Sure do. Why?’
Hart gave a quick grin. ‘Good beef.’
The butcher’s smile broadened. ‘Thanks.’
‘We did not come here to discuss meat,’ said the mayor, his temper rising.
‘Well. Better spit it out then.’
‘The ways of the hired gun are the ways of the devil,’ said the preacher, clenching his hands fast together. ‘And we of this town are determined to make it the most God-fearing in the territory.’
Hart stood up fast, pushing his chair so that it toppled sideways to the floor. Everyone except the butcher jumped back. Hart noticed the bartender move towards what he guessed was a hidden gun under the counter. Quickly he let him see the move had been noticed. The bartender stopped shifting and kept his hands well in sight.
Hart stared at the preacher.
‘That your boy out there workin’ the ferry?’
‘I don’t see...’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes, but.. .’
‘That how you make folk God-fearing? That the way of God, reverend? Cuttin’ out the tongue of your own kin, your own son? If that’s what the word of God tells you he ain’t talkin’ no language I can understand.’
The preacher’s face was a mixture of anger and shame; he moved one hand to his face and began to dig the nails of his fingers into the skin of his cheek, making clear, white lines. His breathing was high and whining.
Hart’s hand hovered above his gun butt.
The butcher touched the preacher’s arm. ‘Best leave. Go. We’ll handle it.’
He lifted the man’s hand from his face and forcibly turned him around; the preacher began to walk towards the doors; Hart let his hand shift to his belt and hooked his thumb inside it, waiting.
‘I didn’t want to be in on this,’ the butcher said, ‘but bein’ on the town council I didn’t have a lot of choice. We voted an’, as usual, I lost. Hansley here owns most of the town ’cept my store. Anyhow, these,’ he paused and looked at them, ‘…gentlemen, want to know what you’re doin’ in Guthrie and aim to persuade you to change your mind if you’re thinkin’ of settlin’.’
‘There’s enough lawlessness in the territory without hired guns goin’ round advertisin’ themselves...’ began the mayor.
‘I ain’t exactly been advertisin’.’
‘And if we’re ever going to get statehood we’ve got to root out the lawless elements and...’
Hart pushed his hand into Hansley’s chest and cut him short. ‘You’re makin’ speeches again. I get your drift. I’ll be stayin’ here a couple of days at most an’ unless someone gives me cause, this gun of mine’s stayin’ in its holster. Just keep that damned fool preacher out of my way.’
The butcher turned towards the doors. ‘C’mon, Hansley, let’s go. We’ve got what we came for.’
‘Not exactly...’
‘As close as we’re goin’ to get. Come on!’
‘Listen to what he says,’ advised Hart. ‘He’s the only one of you with his share of common sense, seems to me.’
The mayor bristled and hemmed and hawed but he moved towards the street; as soon as he did the other pair scuttled after him like frightened geese.
Hart waited until the bat wing doors were swinging closed and stepped over to the bar.
‘What you got stashed under there?’
‘Sawed-off.’
‘Thought so. Who were you aimin’ usin’ it on?’
The barman paused then shrugged: ‘Hansley, this place is his. He pays my wages.’
‘Pays for killin’?’
‘I never said that.’
Hart dropped a couple of coins on to the bar. ‘I’m payin’ for a bottle of whisky as won’t wake me up feelin’ like I drank mule’s piss.’
; The bartender reached behind him. ‘Here.’
Hart nodded and walked out. Mrs. McMurty hadn’t said anything about taking a bottle upstairs to bed.
Chapter Four
In fact, Hart felt pretty good. The whisky had been okay, the bed wide and high and even and his dreams hadn’t bothered him a damn. He’d woken early and taken a walk down to the livery stable almost before the sun had pushed over the edge of the horizon. Clay looked to be almost as well fed as himself.
Now he was waiting on a plate of breakfast in Eileen McMurty’s dining room and having trouble in keeping his patience under control. When the food arrived, he grinned at Mrs. McMurty like a kid.
‘You all right?’
Hart gazed at the mess of eggs, the pork steak and bacon, mushrooms and a pile of buttered wheat cakes.
‘Sure,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Sure, I’m fine.’
‘You drinking last night?’
‘Some.’
‘Huh!’ The landlady turned away, happier now she’d discovered a reason for his strange behavior. There had to be something wrong for a grown man to be grinning like an idiot over his breakfast.
‘You want coffee?’ The turkey neck wobbled as she swung her head back towards him.
Hart shook his head. ‘No, ma’am.’
‘No?’ The steel-rimmed spectacles twitched a little.
‘No coffee, thanks.’
Eileen McMurty went off to the kitchen, shaking her head from side to side and leaving Hart to his meal. He was wiping a piece of wheat cake round the edge of the plate and mopping up egg yolk and pork juice when the door opened and the mulatto came in.
There were no other customers.
The men stared at one another for a few moments before the mulatto came stiffly over and stood by Hart’s table.
‘You know a man name of Fredericks?’
Hart looked full into the mulatto’s face, at the dark skin and the broad nose, the dark eyes that were never quite still. ‘No.’
‘He’s a big man. North-west of here/
‘So?’
Eileen McMurty had come back into the room and was hovering in the background. The mulatto turned towards her and she asked him what he wanted.
‘I’m here to talk.’
‘This isn’t a meeting hall,’ she bristled.
‘I’ll have coffee.’
The woman glanced past him to Hart, who returned her look without expression. She went away to get the coffee; the mulatto sat down.
‘Name’s Jefferson.’
‘Hart. Wes Hart.’
‘Feller at the livery stable, he passed the word. Said you might be interested in hirin’ on. Said you looked right handy with that Colt there.’
‘Depends.’
‘This Fredericks, he’s a big man. He...’
‘You keep sayin’ that. Get to the point.’
Jefferson started in again but broke off when Mrs. McMurty arrived with the coffee.
The mulatto drank some and made a face. ‘He owns a lot of land north of the Cimarron, either side of Turkey Creek. You know that way?’
‘Chisholm Trail runs through there, don’t it?’
Jefferson nodded.
‘Ain’t that up into the Outlet? Into Cherokee territory?’
Jefferson set down his cup. ‘Some. Mostly it’s to the south of there. Strays over a little, though.’
‘Him bein’ such a big man.’
Jefferson looked into Hart’s face for some change of expression to go with the sarcasm of his voice, but there wasn’t any. Just the same blue eyes showing the same mistrust.
‘Fredericks, he’s been gettin’ trouble. Indians, all kinds. Hell of a lot of rustlers. Law comes by maybe once in every few months an’ don’t do a damn. He wants some law of his own. Somebody good.’
‘Send you out looking, did he?’
The mulatto moved his chair and scratched at the front of his plaid shirt. ‘That’s right.’
Hart looked at the man’s face; he didn’t believe him, not exactly. But what he said made a kind of sense. He knew there were men making money from selling grazing land to the Texans driving their cattle north to the railheads; he knew that as soon as they left their stock to fatten every rustlin’ son-of-a-bitch in the territory would be hummin’ round like flies to raw meat; he knew about the Indians,
‘What d’you think?’
Hart was thinking that all rustlers weren’t necessarily sons of bitches; some of them were daughters. He was thinking of Belle Starr; thinking of her so strongly that he could almost smell her, remember the smell of her body as she stood up close to him and leaned against him.
He said: ‘Turkey Creek way?’
Jefferson nodded. ‘You interested?’
‘Might take a ride up an’ see.’
‘Good.’ Jefferson swung his legs out from under the table and stood up. ‘How ‘bout today?’
‘Hold on now. What’s the all-fired hurry?’
Jefferson shrugged. ‘Sooner you get up there, sooner you get on the pay roll. I’m ridin’ this morning. We could go up together.’
Hart wasn’t sure. It was the first thing that had come along and it wasn’t nothing like definite. What if he rode up to see Fredericks and nothing came of it? Well, what of it? Guthrie wasn’t the most welcoming place around – except for Eileen McMurty’s food.
‘Okay, What time you leavin’?’
‘Soon as you’re ready,’
Hart nodded. ‘Got to pick up a few things in town. I’ll be at the livery stable in an hour.’
‘Right.’
The mulatto turned and went out. Hart picked at the inside of his mouth with one finger, pushing a piece of meat down from between his teeth. He was wondering if Mrs. McMurty had any apple pie ready in the oven: amongst other things.
The water was gray-blue and the current moved swiftly, bunching choppy waves against the bank. The sun flickered on the white tops of the waves like sudden stars. Higher up the river a blue-winged bird with a yellow beak flew up from a batch of cottonwoods with a raucous screech.
The ferryman had spotted Hart and Jefferson from his hut on the opposite bank and started the ferry over to meet them. Water splashed over on to the flat boards and lay in puddles, glistening.
The preacher’s son hauled at the rope, a broad smile crossing his face every time he flexed his muscles. Hart and the mulatto stood alongside their mounts, waiting. As the ferry neared the bank, the ferryman jumped off and half-ran with the tie-rope, looping it fast about a spliced cottonwood trunk. The end of the ferry drove up on to the bank and skewed round.
‘Leavin’ sooner’n you figured.’
The ferryman stared at Hart, his left shoulder more hunched than ever. ‘Didn’t take much t’ Guthrie, huh?’
Hart nodded and led his horse on to the wet planking, Jefferson following. Jonah watched them closely, the sun reflecting from the sweat that glistened on his arms and across the tops of his shoulders. Hart thought about the youngster’s father back in the saloon; thought about that time before, on the kitchen table; the knife...
The fair-haired kid he’d seen back at the livery stable – maybe it had happened at around that age. How in hell’s name could a man...?
Hart pulled at Clay’s rein: how in God’s name?
‘We got us maybe a day’s ride if we keep movin’.’
He realized that Jefferson had said something and that he’d half heard it.
‘I say we.. .’
‘Yeah, sure.’
Hart nodded and watched as the ferryman unwound the rope. ‘Don’t seem we’re goin’ to get no more custom.’ He put back his head and chuckled, the unruly sides of his beard and whiskers shaking. He coiled the rope deftly, walking back on board.
‘Let’s get across, boy.’
The preacher’s son secured his hands about the thick rope and braced his legs against the deck for the first pull. Going back they’d be fighting the current part way and it was going to take all of
his strength.
The ferry rocked and dipped and for a moment Hart thought it wasn’t going to move, but then the end slid further into water and Jonah was hauling hard, hand crossing over hand.
For a time Hart watched him. He put him at around seventeen, maybe a year or so either way. Under his short brown hair his face was round and wide and strangely untroubled. The muscles of his arms and legs were well developed; no pound surplus on his body.
‘You two travelin’ together?’ asked the ferryman, the coiled tie-rope held in his right hand.
‘Yeah.’ Jefferson answered, turning towards him.
‘Goin’ far?’
‘No.’
The ferryman laughed and hooked the rope over his hunched shoulder so that he could use his right hand to scratch at his neck. ‘Talkative couple, ain’t you?’
He moved back to by where the boy was working the ferry across. The river was moving swiftly, trying to break the ferry’s passage and take it downstream; every few moments the back of it would start to swivel round and Jonah would have to grit his teeth and check the movement with his weight.
Hart stood alongside his horse, holding the reins just below the neck, every now and then reaching over to pat her on her long, smooth nose. Jefferson was a few feet to his right, staring across the river.
They were midway and a sudden jerk to the side sent a wave of water splashing across Hart’s boots. Automatically he stepped back and as he did so his body moved slightly round.
It was enough.
In the corner of his right eye he saw the ferryman, closer behind him than he’d thought, hand pulling something out from inside his coat. Immediately he knew it was a gun.
The ferry slewed viciously and Hart lost his footing; the pistol was in the ferryman’s hand and Hart dived flat, calling a warning to Jefferson.
A bullet flew through the space where he’d been seconds before and he heard the ferryman laugh and Jefferson curse and then there was another shot and someone let out a scream of pain.
Hart rolled wide of his horse’s legs and pushed himself up into a crouch. The ferryman was steadying his gun with both hands, swaying some as the planking shifted beneath his spread legs. He chuckled, squinted along the barrel of the gun and fired.
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